Back Against the Wall
by suneohair
Summary: 'You considering it? 'Consider what? 'Having baby geniuses one day? No, Spencer Reid hadn't. Maybe he should have. He doesn't understand anything anymore, though if its any consolation, he's certainly not the only one. LilaReid
1. last night

_cage the elephant, *fans thy self* oh gtfo fuck yeah. _

* * *

><p><strong><em>.<em>**

_I said you got me where you want me again_

_And I can't turn away_

**_._**

_last night, she said, _

_"oh baby I feel so down_

_oh, it turns me off_

_when I feel left out"_

**last night**

**the strokes**

Lila.

"Excuse me, Miss Archer?"

It's six in the morning. No one with any self-preservation willingly wakes up anywhere near this time. Not unless stirred by the capitalist world, anyway. This is why Lila Archer sits in her makeup chair, gazing lifelessly into the mirror beneath the fringe of blonde hair. There's three cups of coffee empty in front of her that haven't done anything.

"Miss Archer?"

"Sorry." Her head snaps up, and she shakes the floating, empty feeling off. The attendant shifts nervously as she stands. "Where should I—

"Right. Right." The mousy woman is blinking at her in a way that Lila has been getting more and more used to; star struck. It's an awful feeling. "If you'll just follow me this way…"

Considering that she made her career as a supporting role in _Emotional Cages, _an ABC drama that may as well have been softcore porn, she should be used to taking her clothes off in front of the camera. But being alone in a strappy bikini without anyone else also scantily clothed is new to her, especially when being scrutinized so fully by an array of black, inhuman lenses.

"Just a little to the left doll—right there, that's gorgeous."

Click, click, click.

"Makeup!"

A small army of driven makeup artists flock to her face and, like she's some sort of nascar grand prix car they fix her with glitter and shadow, and are gone just as quickly.

"Perfect, _perfect_—

Click, click.

The camera's are still going but the head photographer has moved back to discuss quietly with one of the crew. They're nodding their heads and looking at her and she tries not to let the confusion show on her face, tossing her hair and sprawling on the lush black curtains.

"Lila doll, why don't we try something different? Could you just, yes, right into the fan, that's great—

And it starts all over again.

.

.

.

Reid.

"What a babe," Says Morgan with an appreciative double take, slurpee in one hand and beef jerky in the other.

Texas is hot and humid, and there's nothing to be appreciative about this sickly heat. What's worse is that it's February. Where is the snow? The cold?

Well, aside from the girl on the latest GQ cover.

Reid isn't particularly interested, though, as he's just bought another book on string theory—not from the 7/11, mind you, because undoubtedly the collection of books here is better defined as a collection of mindless porn—and hasn't any use for such inane things like scantly clothed women when he_ too_ does a double take.

It's not because she's pretty, though she is. Unnervingly so. There's something to the sultry bow of her lips or the definition of smoky, smoldering eyes beneath a dark cloud of glitter, something disturbing.

Something entirely Lila.

Reid spits out his coffee, right onto Morgan who squawks like a bewildered bird, and grabs for the magazine on the rack.

The rest of the glossy surface reveals the rest of Lila, as she's sprawled out on the cover of printed magazine, all whipping blonde hair and fierce expression, wearing nothing but a black string bikini.

Reid's face is nothing but embarrassment, horror, and guiltily aroused.

Morgan laughs. "Alright then, pretty boy." He teases as he pays for his food and a pack of cigarettes. "It's good to see you've got a type. I was kinda worried you were into those star trekkie, nerdy girls—aside from JJ, I mean. Whatever happened with that any—

"Morgan." Reid cuts him off slowly. "I need to sit down." He then moves back to the car without waiting for a reply.

He completely, accidentally forgets to pay for the magazine he's still clutching in his hands as he walks back to the sleek black of the escalade. There's so many things fighting for attention in his already exhaustingly alert brain that he takes a few minutes to just sit in shock in the car as Morgan pulls it out of the space one handed.

"Hey, pretty boy." Morgan looks over him from his aviators, cracking the window as he lights his smoke. "You okay?"

It's all crashing down on him.

"Can I get one of those?"

"… what?"

"Those." Reid isn't looking, but he waves in the general direction of the Marlboro's. "Cigarettes."

"Sure." Morgan answers, bewildered. "But are you—

Reid doesn't wait. He grabs one and sticks it in his mouth, takes the lighter and holds it to the end. He inhales, only to immediately choke and cough it out, struggling with the automatic windows until he's breathing fresh air.

Morgan's half-laughing, half confused, as he awkwardly pats Reid's back.

"Take it slow." He advises lightly. "This your first time?"

Reid nods as he swallows. "Yeah I just… I just really need…" What's he supposed to say? Of course, this is Morgan, his best friend. But this is also Morgan, the notorious man slut who teases him relentlessly but good-naturedly over everything. And by everything Reid meant the mainly nonexistent subject of girls and his love life.

Which isn't so nonexistent anymore.

Or maybe it is.

"Are you gonna tell me what's wrong?" Morgan asks eventually. They're already on the highway back to the county police station and half of Reid's smoke is gone and he's only taken two or three hits of it.

When the genius doesn't answer, the agent chances a quick look to his passenger. "Reid?"

"That girl," He begins, dazedly. "On the magazine cover."

"Yeah, the one you're still holding?" This is true. He's clutching it almost to the point of shaking in his hands. Morgan chortles. "You're really getting so worked up over that magazine? Reid, it's a magazine. I know you haven't exactly had any experience, but come on man. It's just a picture—she's even wearing clothes! I mean, you _have _watched porn, right?"

Again, no answer.

Morgan continues his monologue with a sigh. "It's okay to want to have sex with her, Reid. That's natural—

"I did." The genius says, flatly.

For a few moments, Morgan doesn't even register this. He's checking his windows and going thirty over the limit—who's going to pull over an FBI agent, anyway—and ashing his smoke.

And then, he floors the break.

There's a cacophony of horns behind him but he's staring open mouthed at Reid.

"…what?"

"I did have sex with her." Reid points to the picture, suddenly worried for Morgan's sanity. "The girl in the picture."

"_What_?-!"

.

.

.

Lila.

"So," Jessica stirs her coffee. She's all smiley after the GQ shoot's success, smiley and wiggling and adjusting her sunglasses. "_So_."

"So." Lila repeats. Jessica is staring somewhere between her eyes and her boobs. She's no Michael Ryer, but no one could really replace him. But Jessica does a good job.

"I feel like we've been friends for a long time." Jessica grabs her hand, still smiling but looking a little apologetic. It comes off a bit fake, because she's smiling underneath it all.

"_Are you psychoanalyzing me right now?"_

Lila looks straight into Jessica, like reaching for her soul.

Yes, she is.

"Yeah, me too." Is all the actress says, squeezing the hand in hers once.

"And I think it's about time you told me," There's a twinkle in the brunette's eyes. "About that boy."

"I'm sorry?"

"That boy!" Jessica chirps. Her laugh sounds like a bird, or a bell, maybe. It's a nice laugh; perhaps a little average. Sort of like the rest of her.

Lila shakes her head. This cynicism isn't good for her. It's not good for an air-head actress who just won her first Golden Globe in what should have been some second-rate angsty romance. It reminded her a bit of Emotional Cages. A role she didn't deserve that she got any way.

"What boy?" She acts coy, though she knows which one the brunette manager is referring to. The one photo she has of her and Spencer, that is now shared with US weekly and therein the entire world.

"From that picture?" There is nothing on Lila's face that looks like recognition, so the smile fades from Jessica' face and turns into nervous embarrassment. "Oh, uh, you probably don't remember. I'm sure you've got quite a few of those—

"Yes, quite a few." She agrees.

The waitress finally, _finally, _shows up after what could possibly be thirty minutes. She's apologizing, it's busy, big section, angry starlets, and Jessica is sniping back at her, and Lila is staring into her coffee. The exchange takes a few seconds, delayed only by profuse apologies, before they roll into orders.

"Oh, and hold off on the whip cream, no strawberries—do they use butter in the grilling?"

"I… I'm not sure.."

"Oh, well, make sure they don't. And a cappuccino, with a side of skim milk. Actually, make that soy."

The waitress nods fervently, before turning to Lila.

There's a moment in which Lila stares back, unsure of what she wants. And then, "Oh. _Oh_."

Jessica must have remembered not to order for her this time.

"The eggs benedict." She decides upon with a look at the menu.

"With cinnamon." Jessica cuts in. "It's good for the skin." She reminds.

"With cinnamon." Lila agrees. "And could I get an orange juice with that too—

"How about a mimosa?" Jessica interrupts once more, smiling delightedly. "To celebrate. Oh, that sounds like a fantastic idea. Could we get two of those?"

"And the cappuccino ma'am?"

"Oh, forget about that." Jessica waves her off. "Now, where were we? Oh, right. Celebrating. Speaking of celebrating, you've missed quite a few parties. It's good to make an appearance every once in a while. James Cameron is having an exclusive party to celebrate _ Avatar's_ awards. Cast and crew only. You're invited, naturally so it'd be good publicity to put in an appearance." Though Jessica forgets to mention that her role is barely credited and barely better then an extra.

"When?" She asks half-heartedly. Though she likes Sam Worthington and all those guys, it doesn't sound too appealing.

"Oh, this Saturday."

"This Saturday?" Lila looks up, startled. "Oh no, I can't. I'm going back to Maryland for my grandfather's birthday."

"_That _Saturday?" Jessica repeats, dismayed. Lila nods. "Well, it can't be helped then, I suppose. I'll be sure to tell them…"

It's somewhere between wishing fervently to be in Maryland right now, nestled in her family's lovely country home and wishing fervently for Jessica, for Hollywood to just _disappear_ that Lila Archer throws up all over her Louboutin's and the floor of the Aroma Bakery and Café, 7373 West Sunset Boulevard.

.

.

.

_See, people they don't understand_

_No, girlfriends, they can't understand_

_Your Grandsons, they won't understand_

_On top of this, I ain't ever gonna understand..._

* * *

><p><em>don't you hate it when this shit comes out of fucking nowhere? I watch one episode in season four and suddenly its like... (has anyone ever read forever then some's baby think it over?) <strong>"-THE GENETIC GOLDMINE THAT IS THE WEASLEY LONGBOTTOM BABY-" <strong>or maybe its just the spencer reid baby. hahahaHAHAHAHA_

_review, skanks. _


	2. lasso

_thanksh for the feedback my lovelies. yes i love baby reid geniuses too. we need more of them, yes? _

* * *

><p><em>where would you go<em>

_where would you go_

_tethered to a lasso?_

**lasso**

**phoenix**

Reid.

_Lila Archer's career takes off somewhere between the FBI's hunt for a criminal serial killer that had been plaguing her career since fruition. "It was a crazy time." Lila admits, as she sits down with me for a late brunch. "It's hard to believe it even happened. I'm just thankful it hasn't effected my career since." She's wearing the "Lila smile" as she says this, a phenomenon her fans believe can never be replicated by anyone else but by Miss Archer herself. I'm facing the full brunt of it, innocence meets frank realism in this Mona Lisa smile—_

Spencer Reid has the ability to process over twenty-thousand words per minute, yet he's stopped somewhere around ninety-eight and realizes he can't. Can't do this. This is Lila staring at him from the page. The background is a window with a backdrop—photoshopped to look like what seems to be the North Carolina shoreline, judging from the local fauna—and Lila is standing like a beautiful paper doll in nothing but underwear and enormous pumps (Jimmy Choos, Reid recalls from the footnote at the bottom of the picture. Jimmy Choo 'Cosmic' Platform Pump, 695.00. He may be able to read and speak in over thirteen different languages, but this may have well been alien gibberish) giving him, no, the world, this beckoning look between her lowered lashes.

He's still trying to wrap around the fact that Lila is staring at him, not from underneath him as he stutters an apology and attempts to realign them, but from the pages of some men's magazine, wearing just a tad bit more then she had been that night. Let alone the seven hundred dollar shoes on her feet.

"_What's it like to be acting in such a huge movie like Avatar?"_

And then her eyes have captured him once more, and his eyes again move to the words.

"_Fantastic." She answers with a glow. "I've never been a part of something so amazing. It's up for a ton of Oscars. It was such a big shot cast, you know? And they're all amazing, kind people. The special effects are mind blowing."_

"_Do you have any comments on you're 'supposed' relations with Sam Worthington?"_

Reid felt his heart leap into his throat. He snapped the magazine to the front. March issue. Released a few weeks early—normal for subscriptions—when had Lila been here? Beginning of February?

_Lila laughs. "Oh, not much. I'm sure they said the same things about Kate Winslet." And then, with a bit of surprise. "God… I just compared myself to Kate Winslet. This is really, really crazy."_

The majority of the cover story on Lila had less to do with anything relevant to her as a person and more to do with her latest movie. New movies she's acting in, more romance speculation. Reid notes that she never quite answers—a typical celebrity tactic that is just as vague as the rest of the magazine. She's careful to keep a neutral opinion on everything; from eco-friendly cars to condom brands. Aside from a couple more spreads of her in various rooms decorated in modern neutrals and sleek metal, there's little else.

Everything about it was fake; unreal, eyes with little expression to be caught. Reid had anticipated this—there was very little to profile off of a rehearsed face. A candid shot, however, tells a better story. Though there was nothing candid about this 'tell-all' by Lila Archer.

The jet is quite aside from Morgan's occasional snores, and Reid hates the empty, cold feeling.

Loneliness.

Giddeon is gone, Lila is gone, and though both have left him with a handful of good memories, there is little else to remember. His eidetic memory leaves him with their face and expressions.

It's not enough.

.

.

.

"_Doctor Spencer Reid." She smiles. "But I can just call you Spencer, right?"_

_He turns around. "Lila!" _

_His voice is a little more squeaky then he had intended, but he hasn't seen her since she pulled him head first into a pool, had a gun to his face and in the midst of papparazi. It's better in the cold February air, better with just her lit face and no crowd of people around them. Aside from a shit load of elementary students from Montgomery county, the Smithsonian's Hirshhorn Museum is unsurprisingly devoid of life. _

_Her boots click on the tiled floors as she speed walks over to him before he can protest and throws her arms around him._

_He'd be lying if he said he _didn't _like it, but he'd be lying much more if he said it didn't make him uncomfortable. There's little in his life with physical affection. Aside from a light shoulder clap a steadying hand or a Derek Morgan tackle, he has had little practice in formal socially acceptable physical mannerisms. Or, more pertinently, the unacceptable. So he does little else aside from pat her back awkwardly, hoping he's not breaking some sort of barrier he isn't supposed to._

_Lila doesn't seem to mind, rubbing his hair with her arms around his neck, and his hands find a way to her waist. Again, she doesn't protest. In fact, she doesn't seem to notice at all and Reid wonders if he's only making a big deal out of the position of his hands because he wants there to be a big deal about it, or if perhaps he's just, as usual, over analyzing things. _

_Too many unknown variables. _

_His brain was short circuiting. _

"_W—what are you doing here?"_

"_I'm in town for family." She says, a little breathlessly. Her eyes are wide and the color of the winter sky, framed by a spray of freckles around her nose and the contours of her rose cheeks. "I love this museum. It's been my favorite since I was a child." She ends a little shyly, almost as if she's realized she's draped over him, and disentangles herself. _

_He's aware he's not exactly looking his best, if he has a best, and she looks like she's walked out of one of JJ's fashion magazines, jeans ripped for fashion and boots that weren't made for riding. At least her flannel shirt is practical for warmth, a dark gray hoodie tucked underneath it. _

"_It's a favorite of mine as well." He says, though it feels like someone else is talking. "I've always been a fan of the Sculpture Garden. That giant red metal work is actually referred to as "Are years What?" From a Marianne Moore poem, though I've never found the correlation between the industrial I-beams and the 1967 poem—_

_He's rambling, and he's aware, because he's embarrassed and confused and doesn't know what else to say so he fills what would have been an awkward silence with useless facts. He's half expecting her to cut him off like Derek usually does after a few seconds with an impatient wave or a flat look, but instead, she grabs at his face and pulls off his glasses. _

"_I didn't know you wore glasses." She puts them on and squints, laughing as she tilts her head owlishly at him._

"_Err, yes I have since the second grade—_

"_You're really blind!" She grins, and the glasses have magnified her eyes into pits of stratosphere blue, a thousand different shades of blue refracted like the ocean. _

"_But contacts are more practical for field work." He ends, though she's not listening. _

_In fact, she's wandered off into the Fragments of Time and Space exhibit he had been anticipating since he'd heard it would be in town that winter, and he takes off into the maze-like rooms after her. Really blind. _

"_Lila, wait!" He can't see, so he may or may not have stumbled on a pillar—he really hopes it wasn't one of the art works—and makes after her delighted laughter. _

"_I feel like I'm wearing magnifying glasses!" Her voice is to his left, so he turns towards it. _

_Another fumbling, awkward moment as he gropes for his glasses but ends up in more questionable places, flushing and stuttering as she maneuvers the horn-rimmed glasses back onto his face. _

"_Better?" She's hiding a smile. _

"_Much so." He answers curtly, moving away from her, flustered. She doesn't seem to mind, and trails after him._

_There's silence as he takes in the art. He's not much of an art person, doesn't see it the way some people do. There's little creativity in him, just a lot of facts and understanding and numbers, _

"_No facts?" Lila looks over at him. "Statistics? Nothing?"_

"_There's few facts in art." Reid says, flatly. He's come here in hopes of better understanding the mind-bending, unlawful anarchy which is art. There's no pattern to art, even when the work is nothing but patterns. _

"_Stella Sounds: The Scarlatti K Series." Lila reads aloud, as they are dwarfed by an unimaginably large painting. _

_Reid sees nothing, though he identifies the colors. Almost every color of the rainbow is in there somewhere, and he doesn't understand how it's possible to make something so vast—how are these swirling paintings created? How is it possible for this to mean something? _

"_What do you think?"_

"_I think it's crazy." He answers. _

"_It's art."_

"_Art is a structure which has no real defining property. There is no direct formula which correlates to every aspect of art. Individuals each have their own interpretation of the more abstract aspects of art and it's impossible to fully define or understand."_

_Lila raised a brow. "So art can't be understood?"_

"_Not scientifically, no." Reid agrees. Which may be why he has such difficulty understanding it. But he has read and remembered millions of poems, has looked and remembered thousands of paintings, though they continue to mean nothing to them. He could parrot them back, of course, but interpreting the literature continues to confuse him without a pattern of syntax. _

"_Tell me something about it, then." Lila demands, though she's not looking at him. She's biting her lip and has one hand tentatively around his elbow—he hadn't even noticed until he looked down—and her soft halo of flaxen hair is covered by a striped knit cap. She is art, he thinks. She is undefinable. _

"_Most likely the Scarlatti in the title pays homage to the Italian composer Domenico Scarlatti, a baroque composer chronologically but more influential towards the development of the Classical Style."_

_If Lila is bored by his explanation, it's not on her face. Then again, nothing is on her face. _

_She'd make a good serial killer, Reid thinks belatedly. _

"_Does that tell you anything?"_

"_It tells me that the painter has a deep fascination with classical music. The general population that listens to this specific type of music age typically around fifty to seventy. There's an inherent abstractness to the pictures, along with an almost systematic approach to his work—he's been painting for a long time. Though he's most comfortable with flat, 2-d surfaces, suggesting that only his more recent works have been three dimensional."_

_He turns to look at her, a bit embarrassed that once more he'd gotten carried away. _

_She's not looking at him, however. "It looks a little unhappy to me." Is all she says. _

_Reid doesn't see unhappiness. In fact, he sees no emotion in it at all. "Why do you say that?"_

_She shrugs. "Dunno. It's not something I could put into words—I'm not very good at words, anyway."_

"_A bit of an oxymoron, considering your profession as an actress who reads words continuously off of a script…"_

"_But I don't write them, do I?" She asks lightly. _

"_That's true." _

_She turns back to the painting. "Well, what you feel towards art has less to do with the art itself and more to do with your own personal bias." There's a lilted smile on her face. This is sadness, Reid thinks. This is unhappiness. Not in that picture, but in her, projected into the picture. _

_And the portrait of Lila is broken from stillness by a sharp laugh and the running of her hands in her hair. _

_It's a nervous gesture. _

_Just because he's defined it doesn't mean he fully understands it. _

_Lila is art. _

"_That's what they said in Julliard, anyway."_

_And art is just too complicated. _

_._

_._

_._

Central California. At the thought of the west coast comes the unbidden thought of Lila.

"So wait… she knew your name?"

"I don't know how I could forget a face like hers."

"You've been with so many girls you can't remember all their names?" He guffaws.

Prentiss laughs. "Oh come on, are you surprised?"

"This has never happened to me before." Morgan calls back to them as they go up the stairs, looking miffed.

"Hasn't happened to me before either." Reid says back to him.

"Wh—it can't happen to you, you have an eidetic memory." Emily points out.

"And besides, you've only got one name _to _remember." Derek teases as they arrange themselves in the meeting room. Reid sloughs off the playful, if not annoying teasing. At least there is one name, though its one he isn't likely to forget any time soon, eidetic memory or not.

Though all this thinking about sex has him distracted from these home invasion killings in Sacramento, which isn't good at all.

"Oh…" JJ rubs her stomach fondly. "He's kicking a lot today."

They've made it to California, and Reid is finding it hard to concentrate. He's fidgeting in his seat and wishing Hotch had let him check out the last crime scene. Lila is here, somewhere, in this giant country-state. Maybe she's posing for another magazine, or making shocked faces for the camera in her latest movie. Reid wishes he didn't wonder.

He flips a page in his book, and rambles just to keep his mind off of her. "In the third trimester there's an average of thirty fetal movements per hour; babies kick to explore movement and build muscle." It's clearly a textbook definition, and JJ looks at him flatly.

"Have you ever felt a baby kick?" She asks suddenly as they're flipping through files.

Reid blinks. "…no?"

Without waiting for an answer, JJ grabs his hand and presses it to her side. It's warm, and feels like her sweater is made from some sort of cotton. And then there's a fluttering, restless movement

"D'you feel that?"

He nods, terrified.. "Doesn't that freak you out?"

"No, not at all." The blonde smiles sincerely, before that genuine smile turns to a smirk. "Why, does it freak _you_ out?"

He tentatively brings his hand back, though his eyes take a while to leave her stomach. "Very much so."

The end of the case leaves a sour taste in his mouth, one that has nothing to do with the gruesome murders by a migrant farm worker who liked to play house in other people's houses, though that would have done so to anyone. No, it's Prentiss' words from before and how the whole world seems to be suddenly so concentrated on babies.

It might have something to do with JJ's baby. Feeling it kick was nothing short of terrifying; and morbidly fascinating.

Though he didn't have an answer to Prentiss' question, so it had only been a strike of good timing that Garcia had rang at that moment. Garcia wasn't ringing anymore, though, and Reid was sitting awake in the jet, contemplating what could have been his answer. No, he'd never really considered the possibility of children. Not tangibly, anyway. Why would he do that to a kid? Of course, the question wasn't exactly if he wanted a child, because that was an obvious answer. Of course he did. But would it be beneficial to do so?

Kids came with so many questions that couldn't be answered.

So no, Prentiss, he hadn't considered it.

Maybe he would have been better off if he never had.

.

.

.

Lila.

"Baby," The blonde repeats slowly into the phone, as if she can't quite understand what it means herself. "_Baby."_

"_Yeah, like, the small wrinkly things that come out of your—_

"I know what a baby is!" Lila chokes, voice shrill in disbelief and still rising. "It's just—Rachel! I can't be pregnant."

"_Well you had sex, didn't you?" _Rachel answers, patiently.

Lila scrunches her brows. "No… well yes… but no, nothing happened from that. I was on the pill—

"_Honey, we both know that without Jessica holding your hand you can barely get to rehearsal on time, let alone remember to take a pill every morning—_

"So I skipped a few times." Lila interrupts hastily, with a freaked, flustered wave of her hands. "Everyone skips a few times! That doesn't—it can't…—no."

"_Lila—"_

"You're wrong!"

There's silence, as even her lonely, marble house rings with her voice. She has the good sense to feel a little guilty; Rachel is, as usual, looking out for her. She shouldn't be, though she is anyway.

Rachel sighs. _"Alright then, just take a test. You'll feel better after you do."_

"I'll _feel _better after I take a couple aspirins." Lila refutes, and her voice is shaking from a cold shot of terror and the bile moving in her throat. "Listen, I've got to go. I'll talk to you when I come down Saturday."

"_Okay…" _Rachel trails off, and Lila hates how she can hear the slight worrying tangle in her sister's voice. _"Saturday it is, then."_

Lila hangs up the phone with a faltering, shaky inhale. She opens her eyes to the gray, lemony haze of the early gloom, filtering softly through the windows. The kitchen island is cluttered with things demanding her attention, the startling glint of her car keys and the soggy, forgotten cereal from what seemed to be decades ago.

Her thumbs pad across her phone to Jessica's number, though she halts abruptly on the dial button.

Birds are chirping, there's a leaking faucet somewhere in this house, I forgot to turn the TV off—huh, killer in Sacramento—the lawn mower is so obnoxious, should have shut off the fountain in the pool…

Oh.

I need to throw up.

Lila doesn't think, she doesn't move, just lets the nausea swell over her in an overwhelming, looming tide. Her eyes water and burn; a People magazine lays unopen amidst the junk in her mail. She's on the cover. _Lila Archer and Sam Worthington? _It's not even a picture of them together, just her walking out of what looks to be a nail salon, and him out of a corner store.

There's nothing in her mind then, no, 'well that's just wrong, because it's not Sam Worthington I'm worried about', no, 'well Rachel might be a little right—I would feel better if I just manned up and took that goddamn test', no, 'Jessica might want to know this…"

Poor Sam, she thinks.

An hour later and Jessica waltzes in, smiling. Lila knows from the pitch of her voice even though she can't see the brunette. Shoes, the woman sings, I've got a fantastic pair of shoes. Want to see? Lila doesn't answer, in fact, she doesn't move. Everything in her is telling her to move; that it's just a bad stomach bug; Rachel is wrong, just take the test, it's all fine.

"Honey…" Jessica's Steve Madden wedges clatter on her marble floors. They're so clean, Lila thinks. Why are they so clean? "Baby," Lila cringes. "What are you doing? It's almost—damn it's almost eleven o'clock!"

The blonde begins to attempt some sort of apologetic gesture, something to appease the other woman, at least until her thoughts aren't maundering—wandering right over to the opposite coast.

"Are you okay?" Even dimwitted Jessica seems to be unnervingly aware of her shakiness and sickly pallor. "Sick? Fever? Should I call a doctor?"

"No doctor." Lila says faintly. Jessica is soothingly patting the terry cloth of her pink bathrobe, combing out her dark blonde hair. Just like Maggie, the blonde thinks morbidly. Maybe she has a subconscious need for people psychotically obsessed with her. "Just some sleep. Do I have anything on the schedule?"

"Nothing I can't get you out of." Jessica promises.

"Thanks." Lila smiled, a slight quirk of her lips that was hardly there at all.

Once Jessica has fled the premises, there's a good twenty minutes of the young blonde actress in the sitting room of her rented house amidst her rented furniture. Her stomach rolls in waves.

There is nothing wrong.

It takes even longer for her to roll off the couch, padding over the cold stone up to her room. It's thick in a dark gloom, which she rectifies by near tearing down the heavy black drapes that cover her balcony. California is experiencing a typical sunny February. Sunny, but with a bitter chill.

Leggings first, then boots. She stairs at herself in the mirror—this recognizable face, the arch of her cheekbones and the sweep of her hair. A black wig and some bulky sweater, fake lip ring and gothic makeup later and she's out the door.

She steps into her Audi—the nicest car she's ever owned. There's a quick flash of her Dodge Stratus, sky blue and bulky, fucked up hubcaps and bent in bumper. The R8 is sleek, and if there's a bump on it, she probably wouldn't even see it because Jessica would have it repaired before she woke up.

There is nothing wrong.

She drives into CVS anyway.

_forever is a long, long time _

_when you've lost your way_

* * *

><p><em>I heart phoenix. Review :3<em>


	3. what you know

.

.

.

"_Is this a date?" Lila asks casually, stirring her tea. They're at the main lobby of the Renwick Gallery of the Smithsonia American Art Museum, a castle-like brick structure with a quaint little café. Reid, obviously, orders black coffee that quickly turns a milky tan after all the milk and sugar he's dumped into it._

_He chokes on it, before hastily wiping his mouth. "Uh—well, I mean…" What qualifies as a date? What _is _a date? He doesn't quite know. "Usually a date is… planned, right?" He fumbles, awkwardly._

_Lila smiles, a tilt of her lips that could have meant anything. "Can it be one if I want?"_

_Reid blushes. "… If you want."_

"_Good." Her smile grows then, more honest. "Well come on then, Dr. Reid." There's a coy, playfulness to her as she pulls him up, holding his hand in hers. "Take me on a date."_

_._

_And I can tell just what you want,_

_You don't want to be alone._

**what you know**

**two door cinema club**

Reid.

He's looking into the chrome colored depths of his rum and tonic, stirring occasionally. Morgan yelps from where he's waylaid by a pretty blonde woman. Hotch broods with Rossi in a corner—the man looks just as unhappy to be here as Reid does. Garcia hasn't let go of his arm since they walked in, and Prentiss and JJ have already made for round four.

"I'm just glad we got you out of your house." Garcia says, matter-of-factly. Reid can see the genuine, pleased expression underneath all the fairy glitter. "I mean really, how many times can you watch Empire Strikes Back in a row?"

"You'd be surprised—

"Don't give me a statistic."

Reid smiles softly, ducking his head. "It's my favorite one."

"It's mine too, but there comes a point in your life where you just gotta—" She makes a _schlick! _noise, motioning to her hand. Reid laughs aloud. "Cut the hand at the wrist and say, '_I _am your father."

"That doesn't make any sense." Reid points out.

"Let go of the hand, Reid!" Garcia crows, grabbing his wrists and pulls him into the crowds of people, who seem to dance to the heartbeat of the music. There's a pulsing from the bass line, and Garcia keeps telling him to 'let go of the hand'; whatever that means.

"I'm not holding your hand!" Reid calls back over the music, though Garcia is obviously really, really drunk is she's already making up illogical Star Wars references.

"The hand, Reid!" Garcia repeats with a shriek of laughter. Someone he doesn't know has begun to dance with her, and she's shaking the moves back. Reid is left for about two seconds, before Morgan comes to sweep him up into another crowd.

By the time he's made it back to the high tops they had been before, he's exhausted and smells like other people's smells and JJ and Emily are sitting among crowds of bottles and look deep in discussion.

"Reid!" JJ calls him over. "Come here, come here!" She grins, looking entertained by a drunk Prentiss even though she hasn't drank at all. "We've got a question."

"Yeah, yeah." Prentiss calls in. "A _factual _question."

"Alright…" Says Reid, warily.

"Relative to it's size," Emily begins, slurred. "What animal has the largest testicles?"

For a moment, Reid only opens his mouth.

"Speechless!" JJ crows, and Emily dissolves into laughter. "He's speechless! Em, _Em, _we did it. He's speechless. He has no idea."

"I'm not speechless and I do have an idea." He's affronted by the very thought.

But Emily and JJ are laughing so hard that Emily has begun to hyperventilate and JJ is hiding her smile. Reid realizes that he is also very, very drunk because none of this is making sense.

"What's the idea, then?" Emily raises her brow.

"The barnacle."

"_Wrong!" _Cries JJ.

"It's not?" Reid is getting dizzy. He sits down, doesn't quite make it and fumbles, then attempts again.

"That's the largest penis." JJ corrects with a smirk.

Reid blinks. "Then what is it?"

"The bushcricket." Emily looks pleased at herself for even knowing.

"That's an _insect._"

"They're animals too!" Emily denies, and JJ nods her head rapidly.

"Insects are animals, boy genius." The blonde reiterates.

Reid doesn't understand how they all managed to get so drunk. Because of the case yesterday? While it was gross, it wasn't any worse then the others they had seen. Maybe they just hadn't realized how much they had drank until obviously, they had drank it all. Personally Reid was just a light weight, so anything over seven percent and he was gone.

"You kids ready to go?" Morgan appears out of literally nowhere, though that may just be Reid's depth perception. No one else at the table seems particularly surprised to see him.

"Just one more." Emily promises, waving for the waitress.

"Bar's closing." Says Morgan.

The brunette looks scandalized. "Already?-!"

"It's almost four." Morgan points out.

Reid looks down and pulls out his phone, surprised. It didn't seem like more then an hour had passed by. He has a new message, but is a little too drunk to work his phone.

"Oh," JJ looks dismayed. "I was having such a good time, too. You drunk people are always so much fun."

"In a couple of months you can join us once more." Garcia promises, as she saunters up to them and wraps loving hands around a mostly sober Morgan. "Take me away, chocolate thunder god."

Morgan rolls his eyes. "Your wish is my command."

"Morgan," Reid calls slowly. "I don't think I can walk."

Morgan raises a brow. "No?"

"I got a question wrong." Says the genius flatly. "A factual question. I am very, very drunk."

"Good for you!" Morgan pats his back like he just broke the record for the SAT. "C'mon, I'll help you to the car."

"Where's Rossi… and Hotch?"

"They left already." Morgan laughs. "You know, back at closing time."

Reid blinks, as Morgan helps him stand to his feet, before helping JJ as well. The pregnant woman protests the help, but relents eventually from Morgan's charm. The world is spinning, but only a little bit, so he makes it to the car in one piece, sits through JJ, Garcia and Emily belting out the top twenty on the radio, though at least JJ and Emily sing in tune, and doesn't even throw up once.

It's only when he gets to the quite silence of his house does he remember his phone.

It's Lila.

_Spencer, _she says. _We've got to talk. Call me when you get this._

Huh.

That was almost seven hours ago.

.

.

.

Lila.

He would take this long to answer, she thinks, wrenching her bag from the luggage belt with more force then necessary. The seven hour flight to BWI from California has made her cranky and irritable. Though that could just be all those pregnancy hormones.

Pregnant.

Damn.

The least Spencer could do was answer his god damn phone. He probably has a reasonable explanation, like catching a mass murderer or something. That just makes it even more infuriating.

Lila hails a taxi when she exits into the bitter chill of Baltimore, packing up her enormous suitcase and sits in the back, taking a deep breath. She's been rehearsing this. Yes mom, I'm pregnant. No, it's not intentional—yes, I know who the father is. He's just not answering his phone, is all. He also happens to be quite possibly the most awkward man I've ever met, has an eidetic memory and works for the FBI's BAU unit.

Yeah.

This is going to go down well.

She texted him seven hours ago. Is he going to respond or take his sweet time? Case, she reminds herself. He may be halfway around the country saving little girls from crazy serial killers.

They pull off of I-95 and onto 70, and Reid still hasn't responded. Long night, she supposes, as the time nears five in the morning. She's slept through the flight so mostly she's wide awake as the cab finally pulls off the highway and down into Frederick.

Quantico is two hours away, she thinks morbidly. It'd probably take her less time to just haul the taxi down to Virginia then it would to get him to answer his phone.

The house is deathly quite when she gets it. That's probably because it's four in the morning. She's awake, more than she'd like, but her body is downright exhausted. The hike to her childhood bedroom is slow with all her luggage, and she's surprised no one wakes up with all the bumping and thumping she's doing on the staircase. By the time she settles everything out, has unpacked and brushed her teeth, she tells herself she's just going to lay down on her bed—

And falls straight asleep.

"Hey."

"_Lila_."

The blonde stirs, grumbling.

"Hello… You can't stay in bed forever…"

_Watch me, _She wants to say, because if there's one day she'd rather not live through, it may just be today.

Rachel is peering down at her with a sunny smile, smelling like cookies with batter all over her face. Though its common knowledge in the Archer family that Rachel is an abysmal cook, and an even worse baker, clearly someone has let her near the stove.

"You're baking?" Lila stirs, grumpy.

"Only a bit." Rachel assures, leaping onto the bed beside her, which groans in protest at the force. "Doesn't it smell good?"

Yes, actually, it does. A nostalgic twist of her mother's peonies and linen, with the spicy hint of sugar cookies, like the tangible smell of inevitable spring.

"And they're not burnt?"

"Not in the slightest."

"Or uncooked?"

"Definitely not."

"Too salty?"

"That was one time!" Rachel shrieks in protest. One time indeed, and yet the whole family was ready to puke from the sodium. "And they're almost gone," She continues, slyly, "If you stay here too long you may just miss them."

Lila contemplates this ponderously, weighing whether the last of the cookies are really worth the effort it would take to haul herself down to the kitchen—and the foreboding reality that waits there.

And finally, "Alright." She grumbles, throwing a pillow over her face. "But give me a couple minutes."

Rachel pats the bed as she leaves, her footsteps treading down the stairs lightly as Lila grudgingly rolls over to slide her hand around the bedside table. Amongst all her childhood collectibles she finds her phone, startlingly modern on a table filled with what were probably now vintage toys. Aside from a few worried, but routine texts from Jessica, she sees a missed call from Spencer. From… exactly thirty minutes ago.

She makes a noise of frustration as she pulls over a sweatshirt, wondering how she managed to miss that. By the time she slowly trudges into the kitchen, she's already made the decision to postpone her return call to after breakfast.

_After, _She thinks, unable to bring herself to think on the tenebrous thoughts of Reid, babies, and other foreboding, life-changing things when her family is all assembled in their lovely little home, puttering about with cheer.

After all, breakfast wouldn't take _that _long.

.

.

.

But serial killers don't wait until after breakfast.

"_You've reached the cell phone voicemail of Dr. Reid, I'm unable to take your call right now but—_

"You've got to be kidding me." She snorts incredulously, disconnecting and heading back into the warmth of the house. Unbelievable.

For a moment, she wonders if Spencer is just avoiding her call, but then thinks better of it. No, he's much too polite to do intentionally do anything remotely rude like that, and more importantly, he already attempted to call her back.

"Lila?"

"Over here." The blonde calls, tugging off her scarf and wiggling out of her boots. Rachel pads down the stairs, looking confused.

"Were you outside?"

"Uh, yeah. I had to take a call." She hedges.

Rachel nods, looking placated. "Well we're heading over to Grandpa's soon. Dad's ready to go." She rolls her eyes. "But you know how he is."

Lila flashes a quick smile, and as Rachel moves off to the kitchen looks down at her phone forlornly. Even now, it doesn't seem real yet. It probably won't, until she hears Spencer's voice, his inevitable confusion. And reaction. Though what it will be, she can't possibly guess.

Too late for that now though.

_If only all the mass murders of the world would have the common decency to hold off for a moment. _She thinks, annoyed. _At least for an hour or two._

Because it really wouldn't do to say it in a voicemail, or heaven forbid, a _text message. _

Though at this point, she really ought to tell _someone. _If not the biological father, then at least…

"Hey Rachel."

After a moment, her older sister backtracks into the hallway, peering back curiously.

"I have to tell you something." Lila deadpans.

"Oh?" Rachel grins, sauntering over, lemonade in hand. "What's up?"

Lila searches her face for a moment, her grinning, beaming visage and the brown of her eyes. They don't look very much alike, Lila blonde and blue-eyed, small and petite, and Rachel tall and lanky with dark hair and dark eyes and not for the first time she ponders the complex mysteries of the gene pool. Not for the first time since she found out she was pregnant, anyway.

Speaking of which;

"I'm pregnant." She says, without preamble.

At first, Rachel doesn't do anything. And then she drops her glass.

Lila watches it fall with detached interest, expecting some sort of reaction like that. "I'll go get a paper towel." She offers, heading over to the kitchen.

Rachel grabs her arm before she even gets the chance to make it into the hallway. "Whoa, whoa, _hold on. _You're pregnant?-!" She shrieks. And then, "So I was right all along!"

Lila has the good decency to look a little guilty. "Uh… yeah."

"And you didn't tell me the moment you took the test?" Rachel gapes, tugging her closer as she moves to the kitchen once more." "Jesus, slow down! What do you mean, pregnant? By _who_? If you tell me it's that Sam Worthing—

"It's not Sam!" She protests, disbelieving. Why does everyone assume they're in a relationship? "And you weren't freaking out this much before!"

"Because it was just a test! I didn't actually think you were..." Rachel refutes, and then, flabbergasted, "Then who? And when? And why didn't you tell me? Tell _anyone_? How long? What about—

"Okay, you _hold on_." Lila interrupts, taking a breath. "I didn't tell you because… I haven't told anyone. I wanted to tell the father first, but he seems… otherwise occupied. No, it's not Sam. No, you don't know him. I don't think, anyway. And I'm not sure when, about four weeks ago."

Her sister says nothing, digesting this with a pensive face. She reluctantly lets go of Lila's hand, an exasperated, lost look to her face. "And here I thought I would be the first one to be pregnant." She huffs, before laughing incredulously. "I'm the one with the steady boyfriend, after all."

Lila makes a face.

Rachel shakes her head. "Shit, let's clean this up. And you better keep talking."

By the time she's fully explained the entire situation to Rachel—with minimal and very vague descriptions of Dr. Spencer Reid, who as of now is only a, "nice, quirky guy"—they've cleaned up her spilt lemonade and are seated at the kitchen table, and Rachel is trying to give her all sorts of advice.

"Babies are a big deal, Lils." Rachel takes a deep breath, looking worriedly at her younger sister. "I mean, are you ready for that? Do you even _want _that?"

Lila hums. She isn't very sure. "I dunno." She decides upon, shrugging. Though to be honest, she does have an inkling. Rachel is correct, babies are a big deal. A big, fucking problem she isn't sure she even wants to worry about. At this point, she's sort of been putting off making a decision on that.

"What about an abortion?" Rachel offers, and to Lila's sharp look; "It is an option."

"I know." But who wants to speak of it? Surely though, she's been thinking quite a bit on the idea… "But I wanted to, uh, discuss it with the father first."

She thinks of Spencer, his boyishly awkward personality, his peculiar idiosyncrasies, and his veracious, genuine smile. Again, she's at a loss as to what he'll have to say about it. Probably an astounding fact or two. At this, she smiles.

"What's the smile for?" Rachel asks softly, though she smiles too.

Lila looks up, surprised. "It's nothing." She lies.

Rachel seems to be analyzing her from the inside out, and Lila unwittingly recalls, _"Are you psychoanalyzing me right now?" _and inevitable is thinking of Spencer again, and wondering why she is. _Because I'm carrying his baby? _She thinks, sarcastically, regardless of if she truly knows it's the real reason or not.

"Well, after Grandpa's birthday party we'll have to go to the Dr. Stevens." Rachel says, finally, as if coming to a decision.

"I'm sorry?" Lila blinks at the name of their family doctor.

"You know, for a prenatal checkup." Rachel explains, and then, with an eye roll. "Because I doubt you've had one."

Actually, she didn't even know what they were.

"Okay." She agrees, swallowing ominously at the thought.


	4. come a little closer

_Do you understand _

_the things you're dreaming_

_come a little closer _

_then you'll see_

_._

_._

Reid is getting a little worried when he fishes for his phone to call Hotch, blinding rays reflecting off the mirrors of his tinted raybans, and sees he's missed at least half a dozen calls from Lila. Fielding off Strauss, a drunk-dialing Prentiss, and the astounding amount of inconspicuous numbers Garcia manages to call him from he's used to, but this…?

"Reid?" Morgan peers at him from behind his shoulder, bringing his hand away from the phone pressed to his ear, and Reid can almost hear Garcia talking a mile a minute into his ear.

He shakes his head. "It's nothing."

They're on a case, he reminds himself. They're on a case and he really _can't _take this call.

Though invariably, he wants to.

But it confounds him as much as it piques his interest. If there's one field he flounders in, knowledge-less and confused and wading through murky waters, its relationships. He's not particularly interpersonal, even though working with the BAU has rectified most of his more awkward tendencies, but this… _This _is a subject that confuses even the most suave of men. So how the hell is he supposed to figure it out?

_If she calls a lot, does that mean she likes me? _He ponders, genuinely at a loss. _Or maybe she's really angry and wants a chance to yell at me?_

He ponders what to do, completely missing Morgan's worried look.

"Reid." He says, snapping the genius to attention.

And, to Reid's startled look, "What are you thinking about?"

Spencer appraises his best friend, not for the first time. Morgan may as well be the Superman to his Kent Clark. The daytime news reporter, dorky, slightly socially awkward, and Superman, the handsome, charming guy with enormous muscles. Yeah, Morgan would definitely know more on the subject than him.

"When a girl calls you a lot, does that mean she likes you or is particularly mad at you?"

Morgan blinks, and for a moment Spencer thinks he's completely misinterpreted the situation, before his burlish friend lets out a howl of laughter, wrestling him into a one armed bro hug.

"Depends on the situation, my man." Morgan winks at him.

Spender lets out a breath, exasperated.

"Sometimes they're calling cause they like you—but that's bad man, we call that _desperate. _If she's 'calling' you, plural, she's _too _pressed. If she's calling cause she's mad, well, depends on how long she's been mad." And then, with a thoughtful scratch to his chin, "Usually girl's call that much when they have something important to say."

"Important…" Spencer trails off, not liking the word one bit. "What's 'important'?"

Morgan laughs again, as if he's said something particularly funny, or perhaps just particularly naïve. "What's important?" He echoes, chortling. "To a woman? _Everything._"

"Then how am I supposed to know what she's thinking?" Spencer yelps, now entirely flabbergasted. What were these, these strange aliens? How could something follow no rules, make no logical sense, and defy the laws of physics time and again, and yet still exist? In plentiful numbers?

Morgan pauses at his words, looking down at him. They've made it back to the cars, but Morgan's eruption of laughter is louder than the sirens and all the busily chattering people combined.

He sloughs off his arm, still laughing, and heads to the car, passing Rossi in the process. The Italian looks at him questioningly, then back at Reid.

"What's that supposed to mean?" He yells to the towering man, who is still laughing, but now getting into his car.

"Ask Rossi!" The guy shouts, before the door shuts.

Rossi gives him a quizzical look.

He sighs. "How are you supposed to know what a woman is thinking?" He repeats.

Like it's some sort of magical spell in a language he doesn't understand, Rossi's face lights into recognition and he starts to chuckle under his breath. Unlike Morgan, however, he doesn't seem to find it so _astoundingly funny _that he can't even answer the question.

"Reid, my boy," He bristles at the term. "That's just it; you never will."

And, to Reid's blank, uncomprehending look;

"Women are… well, lets just say the don't make any sense. They get mad at you for buying the wrong groceries, but turn around and yell at you when you call them in the middle of 'something important' to ask them what they want. They say they like the right side of the bed, yet always sleep on the left." Reid supposes the man is speaking from his large depth of experience at this point. "Reid, you'll never make any sense out of them—but don't get too down about it, you're not alone in this."

At that, Rossi gives him a comforting pat to the shoulder, before following Morgan into the car.

_Neither of them really answered my question, though. _Reid griped. He still didn't know what Lila's continuous calls meant.

Then, a stroke of genius strikes him like lightning.

_Clearly men don't understand women, _Reid hypothesizes, feet dragging him to his own car. _But perhaps…_

Back at the precinct, he manages to corner JJ at a moment when she doesn't seem busy, or perhaps the better expression would be, not _as _busy. The pregnant woman, for the better part of the last two days, had been scurrying around the police office and the field, and sometimes Reid even forgot she was pregnant. Weren't pregnant woman supposed to be tired and hungry, generally al the time?

"I'm sorry?" JJ looks at him, as they sit down in the abandoned conference room.

He's fielding calls—this time on the police line, thankfully—from random citizens. Most of them falsely claim to be the UnSub, and Reid decides that this may very well be the only chance he'll get.

"So do you think it's a bad thing?"

"What?" She asks, confused, before shaking her head. "No, Spence… could you say it again?" And then, with mirth, "You mumbled it too fast for me to catch."

"Oh." He looks down at the police phone, embarrassed. "Uh, well, I was just wondering if you would know why… hypothetically… that someone would be calling someone else multiple times."

A sly look crosses the blonde's face. "Ah, and, would this 'someone' be a male, or a female?"

"Uh—it's a girl."

"Potential love interest?"

Reid hopes he isn't blushing. "Possibly."

JJ hums like thoughtfully, leaning back into her chair. Spencer wonders if he's been found yet. Most likely. Though not a profiler, he was so transparent he was sure she could see the wall beside him. But she seems to be humoring him, tapping a finger on her chair as she replies.

"Well, it could be nothing." The blonde agent decides. And then, with a predatory look, "I'd have to know more details."

Spencer looks very put upon as he stares flatly at the blonde, who only smiles wider.

Then he sighs.

"Well we don't really talk all that much." He explains, figuring there's no use in revealing that his hypothetical character was him, as she most likely knew it all along. "It's a little… spontaneous, I guess. We're definitely not dating, in fact, I don't even think we're romantically _involved, _in any sense of the word.. and now she's calling me all the time."

"It sounds like you need to call her back." Are JJ's words of wisdom.

Spencer gives her a withering look.

She giggles. "It's a little daunting, I know. But if you really want to find out what's wrong… well, there's no use analyzing the situation. Just call her back." JJ advises lightly.

"I suppose." He concedes, feeling a knot of tension settle in his stomach.

But clearly, he doesn't want to.

.

.

.

Lila.

_Now, _She thinks, more irritated than she thought possible, _now he _finally _decides to call back._

Out of all times.

Grandpa is taking his sweet time blowing out his candles, although she really can't fault him for that, as between his respirator and all those tubes the insignificant puff of air that would blow it out seems almost insurmountable. Thankfully, the great-grandchildren, all smiley and giggly in their youth, flail around the table and blow them out for him, getting spit over the entire cake in the process.

Rachel swoons, snapping up pictures of all their new little nieces and nephews, all around the ripe age of two or three for perfect candid photographs of cuteness. As her sister twitters about, Lila finally manages to stop smiling and head around the back, wondering why Spencer had to call now of all times.

Completely ruining what was supposed to be a light-hearted moment.

She looks down at the missed call lighting up her screen as she rounds the corner of the hallway, taking a deep breath.

_Calm down, _She preps herself. _Lila you've been rehearsing this._

And then, she hits the redial button.

It's almost too painful, sitting there in the darkened hallway, the voices of her rowdy family muted by the distance, the only light coming from the diffused windows of her cousin's bedroom. It rings once, twice, three times before he finally picks up.

"Lila!" He greets, and she can almost imagine him getting up from his seat, hearing the smile in his voice, an almost nervous lilt to it, walking away from the bustle of wherever he is to a quieter place.

"Hey." She replies, more subdued. In the background are thousands of hushed, but fervent voices.

He must be working a case.

"How are you?" He asks, and the background noise lessens considerably. She closes her eyes. Maybe he's moved to another room, stepped outside. She tries to imagine it, conjuring vague images of a police station from her distant memories and CSI episodes. "Sorry I keep missing your calls, I'm on a case and—

"It's okay," She cuts him off, before he can really start into a rambling apology.

There's a moment when he says nothing, and then, "…Is something wrong?"

"No!" She's quick to answer, even before she thinks if over. And when she does, she bites her lip. "Well, kind of…" She amends.

What do you call this? Is pregnancy something 'wrong'? That's certainly a subjective question, and invariably she doesn't know the answer. Maybe. It clearly isn't 'good' either.

"Spencer…" She starts, shakily. "I'm—

It must be fate, or karma, even, that keeps successfully stopping her from getting the words out.

There's a sudden crash down the hall, and the terrified shriek of her sister, a shrill sound in the air before it's overcome by a cacophony of relatives, all horrified and growing louder in decibel. Someone yells her grandfather's name, and the entire house rumbles with the motion of movement.

"Oh god." She says, turning back towards the kitchen. "Oh god… uh I'm going to have to call you back Spencer, I'm sorry—

And she ends the call.

.

.

.

Spencer.

He looks down at his phone, bewildered and, if possible, even more confused.

That's it?

_That didn't solve anything. _He thinks, moping, and flops into one of the chairs. He managed to dive ungracefully into one of the unused offices while Hotch and Morgan were giving the profile. It wasn't like they needed a small army of BAU members up there, anyway. Clearly his almost gravity-defying acrobatics were a waste of time.

She sounded…

Scared.

It was hard to profile her accurately, what with all the personal emotions that he had for her, but he had managed to read it out of the shaking in her voice. Afraid of what, _him_? As if he could possibly ever hurt her…

His first and most immediate thought was that she was in danger, and he became even more worried when he realized there was no evidence to dismiss the thought. She'd sounded worried, and a little scared, anxious, even, before abruptly ending the call. That sounded like the preamble to every case they'd ever solved.

_This isn't a case._ He reminds himself, willing these concerns away. Or trying to, anyway.

This isn't a case, and she's not a victim. Not anymore.

The thought still lingers though, sour in the back of his throat.

.

.

.

Lila.

Molly, the young, fickle thing she is, pouted in the back of the van with a petulant, if not adorable pout to her cherubic face. Though Lila and Rachel swear up and down that they don't pick favorites, Lila secretly will admit that out of all her nieces and nephews, Molly is by far the cutest. And, to that end, also the meanest. She's a bossy little thing, with a button nose and rosy cheeks and big pink lips always formed into a smile, a pout, a whine, or shrill crocodile tears.

Out of all the new generation, it's Molly who looks the most like her, blonde, blue-eyed, tan and freckled. They dot her face like a spray around her nose and cheeks, just like her when she was younger. Eventually, she'll grow out of it, and they'll only come around in the summer and the beach, right beneath the eyes.

She shakes her head, wondering why she's thinking of this. Is it because she's wondering if her own child will look like Molly?

Look like _her_?

"Unbelievable—" Her cousin Sam roars, keeping one eye on the road and two eyes in the backseat, where her subdued, guilty looking children are swinging their legs and pointedly looking out the window, in that multi-tasking way only mothers can.

"—How many times do I tell you not to tug on those? Great-Grandpa Charles is _not _a toy, and neither is anything connected to him! How many times have I told you not to play with them? How many?"

Her son, Luke, makes a noncommittal reply. It's difficult to tell which one of them was the culprit, but surely it was one of them. There's a slight chance it was AJ, one from her cousin Johnny's brood, who has a fascination for all things shiny. But he's a shy, quiet kid, and would have fessed up by now. Sam's kids though… were like hardened criminals, thick as thieves, and had an uncanny ability of making themselves scarce once they were caught.

Lila can't even bring herself to be mad at either of them.

They may have inadvertently saved her from what was going to be the most awkward, painful conversation of her life.

At the expense of good old Grandpa Charlie, of course.

Fortunately the old man was unharmed, a bit startled perhaps, but the next door neighbor was an EMT anyway, and the hospital not even four miles away. It seemed almost pointless to drive over there, strapping the kids in their car seats as they wiggled and cried and whined, starting the minivan and plowing down the road to the local hospital when the nurses had probably already fixed his respirator, and maybe even given him a back massage.

It had been twenty minutes already, after all.

By the time they had successfully waded through traffic and found parking in the terribly overcrowded hospital, Rachel had already gotten two cups of coffee and a bagel sandwich.

"Hungry?" She asks, offering it to the blonde.

Lila shakes her head. No, her stomach is a giant pit of nerves. Nerves and baby, anyway.

Sam takes her pouting children up the stairs, reminding them loudly to apologize profusely to their great-grandfather for all the trouble they caused. Luke looks like he may just run off any second to wreak havoc on the unsuspecting nursing staff, and Molly has started to cry again—it's fake of course, but looks realistic all the same.

Rachel shakes her head at the brood, before giving a pointed look to her. "How are you holding up?"

Lila turns to her, quizzically. "I'm not the one who almost stopped breathing."

"Charlie'll be fine." Rachel laughs. "It was only for a few seconds."

That may be true, but she still can't imagine the mortification Sam is going through. Can't imagine raising two rambunctious balls of gamma energy. Can't imagine raising one of her _own. _

"Hey," Rachel seems to read her thoughts. "Seeing as though we're here, why don't we go see Dr. Stevens?"

At the thought of the family doctor, Lila shutters.

"Lila?"

"Yeah, sure." She shakes off the fear. It was just a checkup. Just… a prenatal checkup. "Why not?"

Dr. Stevens was a well enough guy, a little old and quite hard of hearing, and Rachel has to almost yell at him to get their point across. Lila hangs back, sitting on the large chair with so many mobile gears and lights and strange things that poke out of its sides it almost looks like a sentient torture device. Rachel seems to want to do all the talking, anyway, and quite frankly, she doesn't know if she could raise her voice that loud anyway.

"She's what?" Dr. Stevens careens closer on his rolling stool.

Rachel swallows, before loudly repeating. "PREGNANT."

"Ah—ah! Congratulations! How far along are you?"

It's at this point that Lila thinks perhaps they shouldn't have picked the family doctor. As she nods helplessly and he begins a tale of her mother and father going about the same thing, she almost wishes she went to some planned parenthood—or at least a rather anonymous clinic where she could easily explain her neutral intentions with the baby. Telling Doctor Stevens she might want an abortion almost seemed a moot point—for one, he probably wouldn't hear it, and for two, he'd probably take it quite personal.

"Around a month." She answers, and then, to his question gaze. "AROUND A MONTH."

Dr. Stevens continues on rambling about as he took her blood pressure and asked her questions she had to shout to answer. She wondered what her family thought of them ditching out of walking Gramps back to the car, but promptly forgot it when he brought up another point.

"Have you ever been pregnant before?" He peered owlishly over his spectacles.

She blinked. "No."

"Ehh what's that?"

"NO."

Rachel gave her a look.

"What?" She turned to her sister, at a more favorable decibel.

"Well its just…" She shifted her weight. "You had quite a few pregnancy scares back in high school, remember? That one in your sophmore year, Cory Heims right? And then with that football player…"

Lila balked at her. "I was a teenager starting sex!" She pointed out. "Those weren't pregnancy scares, those were me overreacting."

Dr. Stevens, in a miraculous stroke of lucid hearing, piped up, "It's common for a woman to experience at least one unknowing miscarriage in their life. Most don't even recognize it as a miscarriage."

The two of them looked at him, surprised. Though it was unclear whether it was due to his surprise hearing, or factual knowledge.

"It's always a possibility!" He chuckled, before promptly stopping his tests with what he called 'routine' bloodwork.

Lila, quite squeamish, attempted to get out of it, but it seemed to be a prenatal protocol.

"You've always been quite scared of needles, if I recall." Laughed the old doctor thoughtfully. "My, some things don't change."

The blonde gave him a withering look, eying up the needle with trepidation. "Don't you have my blood on file?"

"Why yes, but it's always susceptible to change." And with that, he shucked it into her arm, much to her great displeasure.

As the blood quickly began to pump into a vial, she looked away to where Rachel was giving her a concerned, if not a bit green smile. What was she jealous of? Needles? No, probably just the whole pregnancy experience. Now why in the hell someone would voluntarily go through all this…

"Huh, AB negative…"

Lila turned back to Dr. Stevens, belatedly realizing he'd already finished and the needle was long since disposed of. He was peering down his glasses into what could only have been her file, cramped into his stuffy office.

"Oh dear."

"What's wrong?" Rachel was quick to ask.

"Aside from that your sister has the most difficult blood to get a hold of?" Dr. Stevens chuckled. "Oh, yes, well, there's always the complication of the RH factor. Most are positive, but there is a fifteen percent of the population which are negative. Now that's nothing to be concerned over, _except _when in pregnancy. If the child has positive blood, the mother's antibodies will attack like it's a foreign parasite."

"Parasite?" Rachel repeats, gaping, as if the very word offends her moral barometer.

Lila didn't think the term _too _far off.

"It's usually only a concern on the second pregnancy, but considering nowadays how difficult it is to tell whether it's a first pregnancy or not…" He shook his head. "Anyway, where is the father? You may need to bring him in to get tested as well. You wouldn't happen to know his blood type, would you?"

"No… not at all…" Though to that end, she didn't know very much about him at all, anyway.

Dr. Stevens tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Well no use worrying about it now, eh? Why don't you ask him to come in sometime soon, it'll be good to discuss with the both of you. And in the meantime, about those vitamins…"

.

.

.

Lila.

"Lila!" His voice is almost welcome in the phone, and she almost wants to lean into it, for just a moment, and remember what he looks like. After all that's happened, it's hard to remember. "I finally got a hold of you!"

"Yeah, I'm sorry about that." She says, sincerely. "There was a family emergency and we had to go to the hospital—

"Is everyone okay?"

"What? Oh, yeah… my niece pulled out one of my grandfather's respirator tubes and we had to rush him to get it put back in…" And then she had to go to the doctor and get her prenatal checkup done… "But that's not what I've been trying to reach you for."

"Yeah, yeah—is something wrong? Are _you _okay? You sounded a little… upset over the phone."

Upset being the understatement of the year.

"Something like that." She says, quieter this time, becoming aware that it's seven in the morning and most of her family is still sleeping. She sneaked through the front quietly, toeing into her sister's Uggs as she sits on the front porch. "I've just… been really stressed lately."

"About…?"

And suddenly, she can't sit still, a shot of adrenaline racing to her heart that gets her up onto her feet, and suddenly she's pacing the sidewalk in front of her house, up and down the corner.

"A lot of things, but mostly." She stops her trek at the stop sign in front of her house, a glaring relic of her childhood. "Mostly…"

There's a definite pause, and then, as if on a completely different tangent, "Are you RH positive?"

"RH positive?" He repeats, confused. "Why are you—

She swallows, closing her eyes. "It's just… I've… I've been trying to tell you, Spence… but somehow everything keeps getting in the way…" She takes a deep breath. "I'm pregnant."

The air outside is cold, crisping around the edges of her mouth and crystallizing her breath into visible clouts of smoke, wafting into the gelid stratosphere. He doesn't say anything, for a long time. And for a moment, she thinks he's hung up, that she's been standing out in the cold for five minutes, ten even, and he's hung up a long time ago—but she pulls her phone away to look at the screen, and realizes it's only been five seconds.

"Where are you?"

She blinks. "Huh?"

"I'm coming to see you." He clarifies. "Are you still in California?"

"Oh." She says, not knowing what to think. "_Oh. _No, I'm in Maryland."

"Alright." His voice is frighteningly calm. Is this how he sounds when he talks to serial killers? Lila tries to remember when he'd coaxed Maggie, the slow, easing of his voice, but can't recall it fully. "Do you have an address?"

The residence of her family's house slips out before she fully realizes that giving it to him would inevitably mean he'd come _here, _meaning he'd be coming in direct contact with her family. She doesn't think of that until after their brief conversation is over, and she's mulling over it in her room.

She blinks. Good god, she's made a terrible mistake.

She bolts out of her bedroom, chancing a brief glance around the house. It's mostly silent, and she lets out a breath of relief when she remembers her mother mentioning a trip to the store. Hopefully, in the interim of her phone call and then consequential meltdown shortly after her family had trucked off to the local Costco.

Now hopefully Dr. Reid would have such fortunate timing as well, and show up some time before they trucked back.

.

.

.

_She doesn't put out on the first date, she thinks, a little hysterical. _

_Or well, she _didn't, _because she certainly is _now.

_It's not the worst and it's not the best—she doesn't think she has a best, actually. But it feels… different. More intimate, maybe. Maybe it's because, for the most part, Spencer doesn't seem to know what he's doing. Maybe she just has some genuine feels involved. It feels strange; having genuine feels involved. She's not sure if she likes it. _

_He hovers above her, flushed in the face but mostly just looking vaguely alarmed at the proceedings, and she doesn't like the look of that at all and tilts his head down to meet her lips. It's not bad, but it's really not all that good, and yet for some reason her stomach curls in on itself and something warm courses through her anyway. _

_His fingers brush shyly down her side and his mouth moves against hers, one of his arms rests next to her head, tangled in her hair, and they're sharing the same breath, moving in the same space, and it's too much, suddenly. She's had good sex and bad sex and spectacularly bad sex and even fake sex for the camera but this goes beyond all of those experiences, it makes her cheeks burn in a way that nothing has ever elicited the emotion before. _

_It's too much; she wants to push him away, or maybe she wants to pull him closer. He's already inside her but she wants more, she wants to pull him into they're molded together—and it's a little terrifying. Nothing about this is familiar, nothing she feels is familiar, and it's… it's—_

_Special._


End file.
